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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291428">Is It True What They Say? (We're Standing With Him)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment'>karmicpunishment</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ozymandias || Banished Kings AU [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2020 L'Manburg Election Aftermath, Angst, Fantasy, Gen, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minecraft Mechanics, Multi POV, Revolution, ozymandias au, why is BBH tag his name i hate it here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:08:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291428</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy stays.</p><p> </p><p>Tubbo chokes. </p><p> </p><p>Niki burns. </p><p> </p><p>Eret watches.</p><p> </p><p>Sapnap snaps.</p><p> </p><p>George ignores.</p><p> </p><p>BadBoyHalo smiles.  </p><p> </p><p>Quackity hopes. </p><p> </p><p>Fundy plans. </p><p> </p><p>Schlatt wins.</p><p> </p><p>Techno rages.</p><p> </p><p>Philza flies. </p><p> </p><p>A country lives. </p><p> </p><p>The Wind blows.</p><p> </p><p>or</p><p>A world reacts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>L'manburg &amp; Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ozymandias || Banished Kings AU [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Is It True What They Say? (We're Standing With Him)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two weeks. Two weeks since the election. Two weeks since the world as he knew it ended. <em> Two weeks since his </em> <strike> <em> President Leader General </em> </strike> <em> <strike> Brother</strike> friend died. </em> <em><br/><br/></em></p><p>Tubbo had found Wilbur’s coat, blood staining the blue fabric of the high collar, arrow hole straight through it (<strike><em>through his neck, his fucking neck)</em></strike> ripping the fabric. A shattered porcelain mask next to it and a broken communicator told its damning story in totality, the whistling of the wind through a broken portal taunting them further. His brother was dead and Dream was dead and Schlatt was president and this stupid fucking suit was choking him.<br/><br/>He wondered if Wilbur had felt the same<em><strike> choking on his own blood and the arrow through his throat</strike>.</em><br/><br/></p><p>When Tubbo returned to the White House with the news, shaking and holding the tattered, weathered coat and shards of mask, he wasn’t crying.<br/><br/>Tommy couldn’t.<br/><br/>Not with Schlatt breathing down his neck. Not with Quackity and George watching from the corner. Not with all the world watching. Not with so much left to do. Not with a new legacy on his shoulders.<br/><br/>So Tommy does not cry, does not die. He sits down and pens a letter to family who’d long left him behind and gets down to <em> fucking </em> work.<br/><br/></p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>Sometimes Tubbo thought he would choke on it all.<br/><br/>Choke on the stress of leadership. Choke on his tongue to keep from screaming when a hand settles on his shoulder. Choke on his blood when he bites through his cheek whenever Schlatt spits his poison. Choke on the taste of bile in his throat as he holds a bloody coat, as he looks the President in the eyes and ignores his best friend as he tells the world Wilbur Soot is dead.<br/><br/>But he doesn’t choke.<br/><br/>He doesn’t choke, doesn’t cry, doesn’t shake apart at the seams like he wants to. He lives and he serves and he stands straight. He looks the President in the eyes and does what he’s told. <br/><br/>And if he scrubs his skin red and raw until the feeling of blood and dirt and guilt is scrubbed away? Well that's nobody's business but his own.<br/><br/><br/></p><p>-----<br/><br/><br/></p><p>Niki <em> burns </em> .<br/><br/>All her life she’s been a flame, a campfire to warm, a hearth to heat, an oven to bake, a candle to light the way. Now she’s a torch, a spark, a spitting ember, ready to set the world ablaze.<br/><br/>Her cheeks are red and hot as tears burn at the edge of her vision. Her running mate strikes a match and sets her work alight.<br/><br/>Her boys- <em> her brothers- </em> stand still and stuffed in suits like disturbing dolls. Her best friend is dead, is gone, only a bloody coat to bury in a grave her government won’t allow.<br/>Her country is cold and empty and hurting in the hands of a dictator, but Niki is burning hot. Her fingers itch for a sword, her chest burns for a fight, her throat itches for a war cry.<br/><br/>Niki was sweet and kind and lovely, but no more. Now Niki is jagged and broken and <em> angry. </em> She will not be quiet, she will not be calm, she will not be bought out by shrouded smiles and shady deals.<br/><br/></p><p>Niki screams and fights and plans and sets the world aflame. Her flag is ash in the wind and the new flag is ash at her feet. Wilbur Soot is dead and Niki burns and if the world burns down around her? So be it.<br/><br/><br/></p><p>-----<br/><br/><br/></p><p>Eret thinks.<br/><br/>Eret watches.<br/><br/>Eret listens.<br/><br/>Eret aids.<br/><br/>Eret molds themselves to the needs of those around them. Dons a golden crown and a cold stare for deals with a silver-tongued president. Stands tall and proud and unashamed of their traitor brand as a country mourns. Holds back his only friend as her creation burns and does not wince as he catches alight with her. Gives kindling to her revolutionary fire, gives shelter to her whispered plans, gives sanctuary to her punished body.<br/><br/>They give and give and give and know it is not enough. Not enough to fill the hole left behind, not enough to bring back what is lost, not enough to drown out the sound of a button press and a poisonous remark. So they continue to give and hold and stand and watch.<br/><br/>They do not not cry and they do not mourn.<br/><br/>They haven’t earned it. </p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>Sapnap feels like a shipwreck.<br/><br/>Like the tide has pulled him in and held him down and stole the air out his lungs. Waterlogged and ruined. Hollowed out and empty, his insides swept away with a storm. He wonders if this is what it felt to be dead.<br/><br/><em> <strike>He wonders if this is how Dream felt as he died, as his world turned against him,as the borders pressed in as he died with only an exile for company.</strike> </em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> He thinks he might have cried at the thought if he wasn’t already drowning, if water wasn’t already rooted in his lungs. He looks at George on that stage. He’s not smiling. He’s not frowning. He’s not crying. He’s not cheering. He’s not doing much of anything.<br/><br/>If it wasn’t for the rise and fall of his chest and the twitch of his hands he’d think he was nothing more than a pretty mannequin, a prop for Schlatt’s show. He supposes that comparison is not that incorrect anyway. All he’s done is stand and stare, a doll with glass eyes covered by glasses. A passive vice president, letting judgments fall with a sigh and a skewed gaze.<br/><br/></p><p>He remembers when George was better than this. When George would smile and laugh and play and care and be more than a glorified puppet. When Dream was open and bright and unmasked and <em> alive. </em> He yearns and grieves and mourns for those three boys that played and loved and lived without a care in the world, unaware of the storm of the horizon.<br/><br/>But the storm had come, and swept those boys away. Now all that remained was a shipwreck, doll and a lingering ghost.<br/><br/></p><p>He wonders when George became the one in the group with a mask. He leaves the Server.</p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/><br/></p><p>George didn’t feel anything. </p><p>He hadn’t felt anything in a long time.<br/><br/>Maybe he can’t. Maybe nothing hurt enough yet. It doesn’t matter.<br/><br/>Not much matters in all honesty.<br/><br/><em> <strike>Not when he’s gone.</strike> </em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> All that happens is talk, talk, talk. That’s never been his forte, he’s always much preferred to stand back and watch his bright eyed and silver tongued compatriots talk.<br/><br/>It doesn’t matter that those companions have changed forms- Horns flash to a mask and a beanie flickers into a bandana in the corner of his vision as he trains his eyes forward.<br/><br/>Nothing much matters in reality. Not the bloodied shattered mask in Tubbo’s hand. Not the anger- grief- <em> pain </em> in Sapnap’s voice as he rages at him like waves scouring up a beach, lightning crackling in his eyes. Not the manic light in Schlatt’s eyes, not the shake in Tommy's shoulders, not the dissent being whispered in the crowd.<br/><br/>It doesn’t matter. George doesn’t care. He doesn’t. He can’t. Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>This was perfect. </p><p> </p><p>Completely unexpected, but perfect nonetheless.<br/><br/><strike> <em> He ignored the grief trying to claw its way up his throat.  </em> </strike> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> Everyone lay broken, reality in shambles.<br/><br/>Wilbur Soot was dead and his hand painted lies died with him. Dream has fallen and his fantasy team falls apart with him. Schlatt rules with an iron fist, but everyone knows iron rusts.<br/><br/>Sapnap has fled, George has gone cold, Ponk and Punz don’t care. Tommy is fracturing, Tubbo is breaking down, Fundy is playing the part of a perfect mercenary. Niki is fighting back but burning out just as quick, Eret is sitting secluded in her tower, Quackity is bootlicking with the best of them.<br/><br/>The path is wide open, chances waiting to be grabbed. A million possibilities open to him, to them, if they play their cards right.<br/><br/>Badboyhalo has always been good at waiting, biding his time, twiddling his thumbs as the world moves by. But this time he won’t wait, he won’t sit idle.<br/><br/>Not with a golden opportunity in front of him. Not with Skeppy and Sam and Antfrost at his side, eager and ready.<br/><br/>So Badboyhalo pushes down any doubt  <strike> <em> Dream is dead  </em></strike>and strikes a deal. </p><p> </p><p>------<br/><br/></p><p>Quackity grins and tells himself this is what he wanted.</p><p> </p><p> Smiles and squares his shoulders and looks his 16 year old cabinet members in the eye. Keeps his head down and pace quick as Schlatt roams the halls. Nods and agrees and does not panic when a hand clamps on his shoulder and a voice whispers in his ear, saccharine sweet and deceptively kind.<br/><br/>He trusts this man, with a keratin crown and a fire in his eyes, and does not look back at the crowd. He does not look at Niki, sweet Niki, with a burning flame in her heart. He does not look at Tommy, brave Tommy, quiet for the first time Quackity’s ever seen. He does not look at Tubbo, loyal Tubbo, with blood and dirt caked on his hands. He does not look at Fundy, smart Fundy, grinning with a torch in hand and shiny eyes. He does not look at Eret, proud Eret, shoulders shaking under the weight of the crown as blood is shed again.<br/><br/></p><p>He looks to Schlatt.<br/><br/>His president, his running mate, his leader. He ignores the too bright light in his eyes, the scent of alcohol on his breath, the heavy weight of his hand on his shoulder as his grip tightens. He ignores it all, shoves it down and dares to hope instead.<br/><br/><em> This is what he wanted, </em> he tells himself.<br/><br/>For Manburg. For a bright future. For Jschlatt, long may he reign. </p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>Fundy does not believe in luck.<br/><br/>Fundy believes in logic and books and facts and numbers. Fundy believes in strength and swords and fists.<br/><br/>Words and revolutions and <em>“I love you’s</em>” had failed him long ago. Words fall flat and revolutions are made in blood and <em>“I love you’s</em>” mean nothing when spoken with averted eyes. He does not care for those much anymore.<br/><br/>He ignores the ache in his heart, the wish in his mind for one more <em>“I love you”</em> he’ll never hear.<br/><br/>Ignores the memory of the last look he shared with Wilbur, disappointed, and then fear filled as he ran into the woods, as he stumbled, as <em>he was pierced through the neck with an arrow.</em><br/><br/>Fundy does not care about any of it. He cares about the clean pressed suit on stage, about the history books being written, about the ringing of the crowds' cheers in his ears. His clawed hands itch with vigor and his fangs peek through a smile. He has much to prove and not much time and well, that flag looks pretty flammable. He ignores the screams as he sets it ablaze, ignores the sobs of his running mate of a few hours prior, ignores the disappointed tone of a traitor's voice.<br/><br/><br/></p><p>Fundy does not believe in luck, but Fundy does believe in Karma.<br/><br/>As the news rings in his ears (‘<em>Wilbur Soot is dead’ They cry.</em>) he can’t help but feel like the G-ds are grinning down on him, cackling as they cut a string short in the heavens above.<br/><br/>He stares at Schlatt, charismatic and bright, smiling at the news, at the fresh blood on his hands. His stomach churns and his throat tightens and his fists clench, claws digging in. He smiles in spite of the biting pain. He dons a suit and smiles and shakes hands and disowns his brother.<br/><br/><em>He folds his revolutionary uniform with care and hides it in a chest. </em><em><br/></em><em><br/></em>He hangs a new flag and tears down his own walls.<br/><br/><em>He shares whispers with a traitor in the walls of a cold castle. </em><em><br/></em><em><br/></em>He follows orders and spits out “<em>yes sir’s</em>” with a smile.<br/><br/><em>He jots down information in a notebook and tucks it away. </em><em><br/></em><em><br/></em>He bloodies his hands and weapons and ledger in the name of his country, of his President.<br/><br/><em>He smiles at Schlatt, as he walks with his back turned to a fox, a dear mistake. He smiles, for Fundy does not believe in luck, but Fundy believes in retribution. </em></p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>Schlatt grins.<br/><br/>He wears  his suit like a second skin and shakes hands like second nature. He weaves tales and sings praises and fans flames and bows to egos and ignores the whispers of the wind in his ear.<br/><br/>They weren’t supposed to be able to get to him anymore. But he’s still here, isn’t he?<br/><br/>So he stands straight and proud and grins and <em>wins.</em> He wins with two new pawns by his side and smiles as he throws his life line out to sea, sends his only connection into the woods, sends his twin breath, his joint flame to his death.<br/><br/>He does not feel anything but anticipation in his veins, does not fight against the pressure of the wind on his back, does not hear the voices in his ear telling him to run after him, no sir. Instead he looks his newly acquired toy soldiers in the eye and plans a way to break them for what they’ve done.<br/><br/>They weren’t supposed to chase Dream and Wilbur to their deaths, this sky-damned world wasn’t supposed to exist anymore and he shouldn’t have been left in charge of this place.<br/><br/>As he presses the button and the winds rage outside his office, as he banishes <em>kills </em>his presidential predecessor he does not flinch, no way.<br/><br/>He does not grip his head, he does not scream at the wall, he does not wish for a hand to hold and someone singing a lullaby beside him. He does not mourn for the lullaby no one will ever hear again. <em>Why would he do that?</em><br/><br/>Songs don’t pass through dead men’s throats after all, and there is no one out there left to sing a forgotten song.<br/><br/>The wind rattles his windows and Schlatt opens a bottle.<br/><br/>He has work to do; the Skies have ruined this world and he must take them down.</p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>Technoblade feels the rage bubbling up inside.<br/><br/>Hears the voices whisper vitriol and poison and daggers in his ears. Feels the weight of a golden crown on his head <strike> <em> (Undeserved) </em> </strike> and the red cloak on his shoulders <em> (Soaked in blood) </em> and the sword at his hip <em> (Not enough to save him) </em> .<br/><br/>He did not choose to bear these, but he will not take them off.<br/><br/>The gods placed a destiny on his shoulders and turned their back when he completed it. Technoblade does not forgive, does not forget, does not die. <strike> ( <em> ‘Unlike Wilbur dearest,’ a voice whispers) </em> </strike> .<br/><br/>He will not be brought low, he will not be forgotten. People talk of the Blood God, of a monstrous warrior forged in crimson and smile a death omen. They do not talk of family, do not think of connections and that is a mistake.<br/><br/>Technoblade is loyal and Technoblade is angry. There is rage in his veins and voices in his ear and blood on his blade and he does not- will not- cannot die. Not when he has a near-brother to avenge and one left to save. </p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>Philza cries and is not ashamed of it. He cries for Tommy, a boy he left behind, a leader still dealing with growing pains and voice cracks. He cries for Tubbo, young and bright, now beaten down and scarred. He cries for Technoblade, shunned and angry, with whispers in his ears and a destiny chosen for him. He cries for Wilbur, his lost boy, the newest but still so bright and beautiful and <em>gone.</em> He cries for himself, for what he’s done, what he didn’t and what he will do.<br/><br/>He cries and cries and cries until all his tears are dried. He stands and wipes at his eyes and does not cry anymore. He does not beg or plead or yell.<br/><br/>He’ll leave that to another soul to do. He has more important things to do.<br/><br/>Portals to find, friends to save, <em>Presidents to assassinate.</em><br/><br/>And if the wind stinging his eyes feels strikingly like tears and his fists ache for a wall to punch, that's nobody's business but his own. He has so much work to do after all. He takes off on flapping wings, a sword at his side,  and a goal in sight.<br/><br/>His son follows below, one waiting at the end of his journey, one gone forever. </p><p> </p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>The people of <strike> L’ </strike> Manburg watch and choke and burn and mourn and smile and plan and pledge and listen and <em> live </em> .<br/><br/>They watch as history is written. They choke on the smoke of a burning flag. They mourn a leader who loved and fought and died for them.<br/><br/>They put on a facsimile of smile in the face of their new leader and nod as they cross their fingers behind their back. They plan with back alley conversations and whispers of the Underground. They pledge loyalty through gritted teeth, for they are loyal, <em> but not to him </em> . They listen to speeches and listen to whispers and listen to hearts that beat true when words do not.<br/><br/>They live when their general cannot.<br/><br/><br/></p><p>They do not break. They do not die. They will not bend and will not bow and will not be what they are not. They are hushed whispers and work in shadowed corners. They are gathered crowds and proud cheers. They are military uniforms and waving flags and gritted teeth and glory and freedom and fighting spirit in human form.<br/><br/>They are fighters and lovers, artists and soldiers, bakers and builders, scholars and farmers. They are L’manburg and they will not be brought low. They are a living legacy. They are Wilbur Soot’s people. They are survivors.<br/><br/>They are L’manburg and they will not be silenced.<br/><br/></p><p>-----<br/><br/></p><p>The wind whistles and sings and wails.<br/><br/>The wind does not forget. The wind watches and waits and weaves through a shattered nether portal. <em> They broke it, after all. </em><br/><br/>The wind will not let loose their grip on this world. And the wind, as it reaches into the depths of the world, as it grasps the powers scattered within its grasp, smiles (at least as much as the wind can smile)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ITS HERE! ITS DONE! HOLY MOLY!! </p><p>this is the longest fic i've posted (at least in a while) and i wrote it in two days lol, brains work in weird ways</p><p>fun fact! this was originally supposed to be separate chapters per pov, and i made titles for most of them, so if you wanna hear 'em, ask in the comments and i'll tell ya </p><p>thank you so much to nic for the help on this and the au as a whole! couldn't do it without you!<br/>and thanks as well to the writers block discord!! (link to join below)</p><p>https://discord.gg/2Sq9MAg5eR</p></blockquote></div></div>
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